Thesan
Oars and jars in place,
sails ready to blossom,
map drawn as a moon.
Chinese character, rhythm of life,
painted on the hull.
It is strange that I see.
On every mornings breeze.
That there’s always a doorway.
To you.
It is strange every time.
It is always on the line.
And the door.
It is open.
For you.
Come morning,
Come morning,
we set sail.
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